


meow meow ny'all

by quenive



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blowjobs, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Petplay, Stridercest - Freeform, self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 09:32:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10086383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quenive/pseuds/quenive
Summary: Do meows count as a quality addition to healthy couple communication?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tourniqu3t](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tourniqu3t/gifts).



> very vague, very soft
> 
> some guardiancest for your soul >:3c

Nail clipping became a less frequent phenomena in your household ever since he started taking you to bed with more honesty, honesty regarding his wide array of kinks. Sex turned into bittersweet exercise of both the body and the mind, aftercare turned into gently rubbing aloe vera all over his zebra back while he's sprawled over your lap like a cat. Touches transcended from lukewarm surface pets to scorching deep tissue rubs, which could only be described with medical pamphlet terms, as you personally conclude.

Your relationship with him progressed drastically ever since he sat you down and pulled out his scroll of a list (which, in all its comedic value, rolled down and scrunched up on the floor). As good of an actor you were, the chin rubs and subtle nods genuinely surfaced while you listened to him amorously boast about all the spice that got his sheath off. There's a glint in his eyes, and a twang other than southern in his voice. Your skillful radars pick up a number of other things, though.

Hesitation, anxiety? Lamenting it would best describe his passion, although the subtle joyful shift in his demeanor when you dropped a big "yes" at every dot on the scroll just about eliminates that description. 

Because, who else takes kinks this seriously? Who else thinks them out, arranges them into hand written categories and subcategories, then formally presents them to their partner while wearing said partner's expensive suit (most likely ripping it in the process, most likely putting a suit on for the first time in his life). For a second, if you squint, you might fool yourself with the illusion that his irony may be more advanced than yours. In those moments you mentally glance at what your whole career is based on, and then sigh a relieved sigh once you remind yourself that his isn't. He can keep that suit. Once he stretched it out, there's no chance of that getting on your body without doubling as a robe.

All this prep brings you to your current situation, the cliché introduction doesn't fail to slip your mind. Your fist is lost in the sheets, silk threatening to hurt your knuckles as they make wrinkles in an otherwise smooth surface. As your back arches off the bed, your sweat-coated chest heaves. Sharp intakes of breath scratch your lungs from the inside but all you really feel is relief from the heat your own body is producing like a furnace.

Your chest heaves and heaves, until it comes to an abrupt halt. When a strong, flat palm presses the middle of your sternum, your back presses flat against the red silky sheets. Your flow of air gets involuntarily cut off by your own body, all in sync with Bro drastically getting his mouth off of your dick. If they could talk, your lungs would scream at you. Breathing is vital to your existence, asshole.

Breathe, just, breathe.

So you do. You inhale, exhale, open your eyes to take a gander at the man between your thighs. Fluffy white anime cat ear clips. Squirming, you're wildly unsure whether you should laugh or cry or hurry him the fuck up because, honestly? You're a wreck. You'd kill for a full body mirror to look at yourself right now. Cat man or no cat man, Bro made a work of art out of you. Displaying yourself in the Musée du Louvre like this crosses your mind once or twice. Post-fuck, ecstatic, and edged to oblivion.

It's fun being the asshole that gets his rocks off first, taunting the other guy that still has a boner for days.

"Son of a fuck." You breathe out, desperately wanting to tilt your head back and close your eyes, but stopped by the intense need to just look at him and beg, plea, whichever dignity eraser he finds the most amusing. His hand is slipping down your chest, onto your stomach, while his other arm is hooked around your right leg in an awkward leg hug. Makes it easier for him to nuzzle his face into your thigh, you conclude when you feel his spontaneous stubble scratching it. Thigh chafing is the last thing you expected to be getting off on, but you developed this sugary habit of surprising yourself. 

He reaches all the way down and spreads your other leg. Boner city centre is exposed, alone, and you'd tap it onto his smug face if it wouldn't earn you a disturbing authentic feline hiss.

Why not?

But you don't even get to play out these fantasies, he's lifting his upper lip and exposing his teeth as soon as you reach down. Instead of your dick, you go for his hair. You know better than to pull, so you gently scratch his scalp behind his fake cat ear. Shocking results; the dickhead kitty catastrophe gives you an approving fake-purr, and tongue yiffs up your shaft. A relieved sigh is all that you manage as you imagine how his tongue would feel if it had more texture on it. It would probably be really dry.

You stop right there, finding it easier to just pause and appreciate how in-character he remains. White fur of his long, luxurious cat tail buttplug peeks behind his muscular body. A moment is taken to also appreciate the new dynamic this get-up gives him, but the moment doesn't last long. In a second he's expertly downing your cock, swallowing around you, working his tongue left and right over your shaft. He takes into consideration everything you like, amplifies it to an excruciating level. The little bell on his leather collar jingles quietly, but the sound is soon drowned by your heavy breathing, and the subtle choking noises he tries to hide.

You grip his hair, and you fear that he may stop. A small part of you wants the torture of him edging you for hours on end, but the rational part of you wallows in relieved triumph when it realizes that he isn't going to stop.  
Natural. It's natural and pure, the way his name flows out of your mouth when you finally come with no audible warning. Relying on your body to speak for you when you're unable to from the lump in your throat is, by your definiton, one tier closer to the ultimate partner trust god tier. Two men, both having their speech hampered in some way, understanding each other better than words can ever portray. You come into his mouth with a whine, and a groan, and a mewl, and whatever unholy sound your throat feels like producing around that lump. He takes it all, milks you with his hand, subtly wipes away a tear from his cheek when he thinks you're too caught up in your orgasm to notice.

You do notice, just before you throw your head back and close your eyes. He gets you through it, skillfully and patiently as your thighs twitch and your chest resumes its healthy heaving pattern. Swallowing is convenient to the both of you. Why ruin good silk by letting anything drip?

Next second, the warmth between your legs is gone, a large lump of mass is denting the mattress next to you, the same warmth moves to completely engulf the right side of your body. His sand paper face gets buried into your neck, and the illusion of a strong, sturdy man gets replaced with the image of an exhausted, lanky late teen. An ear falls onto your face.

It tickles your nose. You snort, and then puff it away. Unaffected by his newfound hearing impairment, Bro rubs slow circles onto your chest while quietly groaning into your neck. Groany vibrations tickle too. You can't possibly win. His tail gets chucked down by your feet. Suddenly, that groan makes a lot more of sense.

"Am keepin' the collar on." Bro simply states. You can just about smell how embarrassed he's getting, just because his voice is heavily off-pitched and fucked up to hell and back.

"Can't shower while you're a cat," you're quick to reassure him with an almost equally fucked up tone.

"Shit, y'right," sighting, he reaches up to his neck. After an unsuccessful clank or two, his hand is back on your chest. "Eh."

You rub your head against his and turn to your side to face him, nuzzling and cuddling him back. As the room gets colder because of your descending body heat, you seek refuge in his slightly larger and warmer frame. However, you wouldn't mind holding him back either. Problem is, your ass is full of jizz.

"Who should start up the shower before fungi start colonizing these two flesh islands?"

He taps your body. "Provided ya' c'n walk," you hear a follow-up mutter.

A long ride for the both of you, you decide to indulge him one last time today. And you swear, you swear by all what you're ready to believe in, that you'll get him to court you with a spaghetti dinner and a bottle of expensive wine (which you paid for yourself).

You move to get up, he pulls you back in. When he kisses you, you taste your own dick in his mouth. It makes you smile into the smooch. Even with half lidded eyes he flutters his eyelashes at you and you're filled with the warmest type of glee, pooling in your stomach and threatening to gleesplode with the slightest affectionate convenience.

"Love ya, hothead," he straight up mewls into your mouth.

There it goes. 

Alright. You.. you guess you wouldn't mind ordering takeout, either.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you jul


End file.
